


Home Is, After a Long Absence

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:03:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post series. Not a whole lot happens, as is usual with me. It's about d'Artagnan, Porthos and Athos returning to Paris after war, reuniting with Aramis and Constance. About peace after war. About returns, friendships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: character death, no one from canon. Grief. Mass graves and canon-typical violence. 
> 
> This fits with the canon-compliant stuff I've been writing previously, but it diverges from canon and I am a hundred percent certain that the new series will not go like this, because this is gay and the BBC doesn't make things gay all of a sudden, like. Sadly.

Porthos was standing, completely still, staring right at d'Artagnan. There were Spanish soldiers all around them, they were almost knee deep in mud and blood. Amyot was lying dead at d'Artagnan's feet. d'Artagnan was standing over him, keeping him from being trampled, sword and knife both in constant use. Porthos wasn't moving, and d'Artagnan didn't have time or space to do anything except yell his name. He twisted, catching another gut with his knife, tugging up and pulling out and turning to meet a sword behind him.

 

He spun back to face Porthos. Porthos's arms were slack by his sides, face vacant. d'Artagnan yelled his name again, sinking his knife into another enemy body. He hoped it was an enemy, anyway, the mud made it difficult to distinguish friend from foe. Porthos's head tilted to one side and he looked up, switching his gaze from d'Artagnan to a Spanish soldier who was moving in on Porthos. Porthos didn't do anything, didn't lift his sword or his fists, he just stood there and faced his enemy. d'Artagnan yelled, leaping over the soldiers at his feet, abandoning Amyot's body for Porthos.

 

There wasn't time, though. The hot rush of battle turned time slow, speeding up now and then. It sped up as d'Artagnan charged through. He made it just as the Spaniard tugged a knife from between Porthos's ribs. d'Artagnan heard Porthos suck in a breath, then Porthos's head jerked forward to headbutt the Spaniard, knife finally coming up to sink in. The man fell, and Porthos turned to d'Artagnan.

 

"You're 'urt," Porthos said, hand pressing to d'Artagnan's stomach, knife falling from his fingers. "You're all blood."

 

"Porthos," d'Artagnan said, pushing Porthos to try and make him sit.

 

Even with a knife wound Porthos didn't go down easily, though. He stood firm and lowered his head, examining d'Artagnan, as if it was d'Artagnan who was injured. d'Artagnan drew his pistol and shot one of the few remaining Spanish soldiers, trying to keep watch on Porthos and the battle field. Giraud came running over, touching d'Artagnan's shoulder and then standing with him, blades drawn. The explosion of musket-fire scattered the last of the Spanish defence, and the musketeers coalesced from their positions on the field. Athos was striding through, giving orders.

 

"Porthos," d'Artagnan said, again, turning his attention back now he could.

 

"I can't fin' it," Porthos muttered, unbuckling straps and belts and jerkin, tugging at d'Artagnan's armour and clothing, jerking the buckles at his shoulder and tossing his uniform away, tearing his breast plate. d'Artagnan let himself be stripped and prodded. "Nothin'. Nothin'."

 

"I'm not hurt," d'Artagnan said. "You are."

 

Porthos looked up, blinked, then shook his head. His eyes closed and he cupped d'Artagnan's cheek, pressing their foreheads together.

 

"Not hurt," Porthos whispered, breath hot on d'Artagnan's face.

 

"No."

 

Porthos made a wounded, quiet noise, and then his knees buckled. d'Artagnan slowed his fall, settled him gently on the ground. He knelt there, undoing Porthos's own armour with more skill and quickness than Porthos had shown. He reached bare skin, wet with blood, and the wound, and took a deep breath, tearing a roll of bandages from the pouch he wore these days. He pressed it to Porthos's side, and Porthos howled.

 

"d'Artagnan?" Athos asked, hand warm and heavy on d'Artagnan's shoulder, body steady at d'Artagnan's back the moment he was needed.

 

"His side," d'Artagnan said. "Not his gut. Thank God."

 

"What do you need?"

 

"Bearers to take him to the tent for the wounded. This needs stitching, and bandaging."

 

Athos nodded and moved on, leaving d'Artagnan to tend to Porthos. Porthos's eyes were roving over the sky above them, wet and uneasy. His lips were parted to let out soft sounds. d'Artagnan shifted so he was in Porthos's view and touched Porthos's cheek to get his attention.

 

"Amyot," Porthos said, hand clasping weakly over d'Artagnan's arm. "Amyot. Estienne. Estienne."

 

"Hush," d'Artagnan said. "Rest."

 

He pressed more firmly on the bandage and a sound of pain ripped from Porthos, so helpless that d'Artagnan almost let go. Instead he pressed still harder. Porthos wept, turning his head into the mud. d'Artagnan hoped he'd faint soon.

 

**

 

"How is he?"

 

d'Artagnan looked up. He was sitting by the cot that held Porthos, reading by candle light. Athos was stood at the end of the row of cots. When d'Artagnan looked up, Athos came over and sunk wearily onto the floor next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

 

"Waiting for him to wake," d'Artagnan said. "We stopped the bleeding, but he lost a lot first. He is probably going to be feverish, everything infects in these accursed tents."

 

"Bring him to my tent, then."

 

"Captain, you cannot-"

 

"I won't have my friend die for form's sake. All these men lying here are under my command and I _will_ do right by them, I _will_ see them cared for. But Porthos gets special treatment, because he is special."

 

"How many did we lose today?"

 

"Too many," Athos snapped, eyes glazing. "Porthos is going to tear himself apart over Estienne Amyot."

 

"Yes. Who else?"

 

Athos remained silent, turned his head to gaze at Porthos, unmoving. d'Artagnan left him to it, getting up and stretching. He helped settle the wounded, doing what he could, and then withdrew to find himself food.

 

The camp was quiet, the musketeers mourning tonight. d'Artagnan went to where their dead have been laid out, ready for burial. He walked the line of them, remembering names and what he could of personalities. There were weary men digging graves, each grave wide and deep enough for ten men. They looked up at d'Artagnan, and there was too much despair there.

 

"We cannot bury each man alone," d'Artagnan said, quietly. "We cannot. We will write their names, though, and remember where each is buried, and when the war is over we will return and we will raise markers for each man."

 

The diggers nodded. d'Artagnan had made this promise at the end of each battle. The men were beginning to believe him. He kept lists, had a stack of them folded neatly that he kept in his saddle bag and was careful over. He wrote letters to Treville and Constance and got a letter with the queen's seal that he showed around. A promise.

 

"It will take years to do 'em all," One of the men said, glaring defiantly at d'Artagnan. "Words. Aren't worth a thing, boy. My brother's here, laid out dead."

 

The man spat at the ground near d'Artagnan's boots.

 

"I will have years, if I live," d'Artagnan said mildly. "I will take whatever time needed. I have brothers, too, my friend. One of them nearly died today. I don't make promises lightly."

 

The men shifted uncomfortably, but the one who spat still raised his chin.

 

"Brothers. What do you know of them?" he demanded of d'Artagnan. "You have none. Friends aren't the same. Even for musketeers."

 

"My brothers are men I would die for, first and foremost. They are men who I will love, and who I will love no matter what. No matter how much trouble they get me or themselves into, no matter what words they fling at me in anger, no matter how many years go between knowing them. I will love them when they run and I will love them if they never return and I will love them if they refuse to leave my side and I will love them if they fall.

 

"Men I know every inch of, inside and out, and the moments I miss are just moments not told yet. I know them beyond any doubt. Most, though, most important, is that they love me the same way, and I have never, ever doubted that. I have sat in dark places and known they would come for me, I have sat in dark places and never wavered for a moment. If I do waver, if I do doubt, it only takes a thought of them for me to remember myself. They might be angry with me, or cast me aside thoughtlessly, or forget me a minute, but they never ever pause in their steadfast love of me."

 

d'Artagnan breathed hard, staring at the man, then he turned on his heel and stalked back the way he came. He bent to kneel by Amyot's body and prayed, closed the man's eyes, checked he was laid out properly. He returned to Porthos, found him gone and strode to Athos's tent, anger burning in him. He found Porthos lying on Athos's own cot and Athos sitting at the table, eating. d'Artagnan glared at Athos to show he was angry about this, then went to Porthos to check him for fever. Porthos's eyes opened.

 

"d'Artagnan," Porthos said.

 

"Yes, you idiot," d'Artagnan snapped. "Nearly got yourself killed of stupidity. Never mind. You're fevered, and I need to cool you."

 

d'Artagnan got water. Porthos was still awake when he returned, neck cricked awkwardly to watch Athos. d'Artagnan snatched meat and bread from Athos's plate, both horribly dry, and ate as he bathed Porthos. The bread was thick and flat, made over a fire.

 

"There's broth, for Porthos," Athos said.

 

"Give it here, then," d'Artagnan said, still snapping.

 

Athos passed a metal mug over and d'Artagnan fed Porthos with brisk, irritable movements. Porthos ate obediently, eyes on d'Artagnan's face.

 

"Angry," Porthos said.

 

"Obviously," d'Artagnan agreed, softening enough to huff and shake his head. "You were stupid, and got hurt."

 

"You and Amyot were stood and I couldn't see which was which. I thought you were dead," Porthos said.

 

He gazed at d'Artagnan, then jerked his head away, pressing into the pillow with a horrible whining moan, rising to a wail. d'Artagnan put the mug aside and set about soothing Porthos. It was easy enough, always had been. Porthos just needed to feel you there, and he calmed. Athos came over and held d'Artagnan's shoulder, bending to press a kiss to Porthos's head.

 

"I was glad Estienne died," Porthos rasped.

 

"Shh. No you weren't, you silly thing," d'Artagnan said, getting his arms mostly around Porthos. "You were just glad I wasn't. Shh."

 

Porthos calmed in d'Artagnan's arms, breathing hot pants into d'Artagnan's biceps. d'Artagnan stroked Porthos's back, hushing him, until he slept, his breathing finally evening to snores. d'Artagnan leant back into Athos's legs. Athos knelt beside him, arm around him, and they watched Porthos together for a while.

 

"I can't lose him," Athos said, softly. "Or you. I wouldn't recover from that wound. Not ever."

 

d'Artagnan believed it. He'd seen the way Athos still looked for Aramis. He'd seen the way Aramis's leaving had caused an irreparable tear in the way Athos moved through life. Like a crutch had been taken away, and Athos was left teetering dangerously. d'Artagnan leant into Athos's side, closing his eyes. He was weary. Of war, of death, of losing people.

 

"You need to eat more," Athos said. "Then you need to sleep."

 

d'Artagnan stayed where he was until Athos nudged him away and up to the table.

 

**

 

"We're to return to Paris," Athos said, joining d'Artagnan.

 

There had been no attempts to retake their position, and so they had been having a sort of holiday. There had been sports, and fights set up, and shooting competitions. There had been time to mourn, for once, and time for the wounded to recover. When Athos came up with the news of their orders, Porthos was sitting outside under d'Artagnan's supervision, watching two young men fencing. Porthos and d'Artagnan both looked up at Athos's approach.

 

"Any reason?" Porthos asked.

 

"A treaty has been signed, apparently," Athos said, shrugging. "Most regiments are being recalled. We're leaving a presence on the agreed border, but that's it."

 

"Wait," d'Artagnan said, getting to his feet. "A treaty. Recalled. Peace? The war's over?"

 

"For us, anyway," Athos said, shrugging again. "We'll still have duties on the border for a while, I imagine, but for the most part... yes. Peace."

 

"Are we glad of that?" d'Artagnan asked. He had never seen the end of a war, before. Only the beginning and middle part of it. It had been three years. Was this it?

 

"If you like," Athos said.

 

Porthos got to his feet carefully and bellowed until people stopped what they were doing, then he yelled out the news. The camp exploded with excitement, people running to and fro to hug one another.

 

"Sit down," d'Artagnan snapped, fussing around Porthos. "You'll hurt yourself. Honestly, I don't know how Aramis used to deal with this. The thing I'm most glad of now this is over is not having you as my perpetual patient."

 

"Who says you won't still have me as a purple patient?" Porthos said, grinning ear to ear, letting d'Artagnan fuss.

 

"Perpetual. Eternal, ongoing, ever-renewing," d'Artagnan said.

 

"Purple's close enough," Porthos said, comfortably.

 

"Purple, then. And you're right- I forgot how troublesome you were before the war," d'Artagnan said.

 

"How are you, today, Porthos?" Giraud asked, coming running up, breathless and smiling widely. "Well enough to embrace an old friend?"

 

Porthos lumbered back to his feet, undoing all of d'Artagnan's fussing, and embraced Giraud. Several others came swarming up to hug him, too. d'Artagnan got a few as well, and even Athos got embraced. d'Artagnan lost track of Porthos, caught up in the general clamour and happiness. When he made it back to Porthos's side, Porthos was white and sweating.

 

"Good," Porthos said, clutching d'Artagnan's shoulder. "There you are. I'm going to faint."

 

Then, he did just that, crumpling to the ground at people's feet. He was borne back to Athos's tent and d'Artagnan tutted over him for a while, but there was nothing really wrong, just exhaustion, so d'Artagnan left him and went back out to celebrate.

 

He and Bigaud attempted to drink Jacques and Giraud under the table, telling increasingly heroic tales of their deeds during the war, enlarging their exploits now it was over. The only alcohol they had was brandy acquired in a raid months ago that Jacques somehow hid from Athos's careful watch, and wine that d'Artagnan had somehow managed to keep from last time they were near an inn, somehow left un-pillaged though long empty. By the time the sun set (actually considerably after the sun set, but d'Artagnan missed the moment of things going dark and only noticed afterwards) he had still managed to get drunk, and he stumbled to Athos's tent, instead of his own, intent on checking on Porthos.

 

Athos looked up from the table, where he was bent over a pile of papers, and d'Artagnan waved. Somehow his body followed his arm and he nearly fell over. He staggered, caught himself, and then nearly went over backwards after over compensating. Luckily, Athos got up and saved him from himself, steadying him. d'Artagnan beamed into Athos's friendly face.

 

"Ah! Captain!" d'Artagnan said.

 

"Hello," Athos said, lips twitching.

 

"Came t'see Porthos."

 

"He's sleeping," Athos said.

 

"He was sleeping," Porthos murmured, from the cot.

 

d'Artagnan wriggled out of Athos's hold and sat heavily on the bed, patting at Porthos's head. He found a nose and cheek before the soft hair. When he did find hair, he stroked.

 

"Injured right as the war ends," d'Artagnan said, sadly. "So many new scars on you. Both of you. Ones I made."

 

"Doesn't work like that," Athos said, gently, sitting beside d'Artagnan.

 

"Athos," Porthos said. "I can't..."

 

"Alright," Athos said. "I've got him."

 

d'Artagnan frowned at Athos, then looked down at Porthos. Porthos's face was creased with pain, and turned away from d'Artagnan. Athos pulled d'Artagnan up and away before d'Artagnan could find out what hurt, and d'Artagnan protested, but he was propelled to his own tent anyway. Bigaud was passed out on his bedroll. Porthos and Amyot's spaces were empty. d'Artagnan sat on Amyot's bedroll and all the breath left him.

 

"At the end of the war," d'Artagnan said, shock sending the world whirling.

 

"War has casualties," Athos said, sitting beside him and wrapping him in a hug. "We grieve for the men we lose. It is allowed."

 

"I barely knew Amyot. Only through Porthos," d'Artagnan said.

 

"It is hard. Just a few days sooner, and they'd be safe," Athos said. "Just a few days more, and it might have been us. It's a dangerous time."

 

"It might have been you, or Porthos, and then what would I have done? My life would have been empty. Empty."

 

"I don't have answers to this," Athos said, shuffling them over to d'Artagnan's bed and sitting against the wall. Athos put his head back and shut his eyes, patting his thigh in invitation. d'Artagnan snuggled down and used him as a pillow. "Grief is individual, and there's no reason to it. Just allow yourself to feel it. We are all allowed to grieve."

 

d'Artagnan fell asleep with Athos's hand in his hair, Bigaud snoring in the background, Athos humming something.

 

They struck camp in the morning. The wounded rode in the wagons with the equipment. Those able cursed and sang and shouted insults at the driver for the bumps in the road. d'Artagnan rode beside the wagon holding Porthos. Porthos was silent, keeping his eyes closed and his mouth shut. d'Artagnan rode ahead to Athos, to ask whether he should be worried about Porthos. Athos looked at him for a long time.

 

"I don't know," Athos said, at last. "He is weary, he is hurt, and he lost someone dear to him in a way that has him heavy with guilt and fear. I think it may take a while for him to heal."

 

"How long to reach Paris?" d'Artagnan asked.

 

"Four days. Five, if we take it easy, which I mean to. We'll be home in a week on the outside. You can see Constance."

 

d'Artagnan nodded. He felt heavy. He hadn't thought of her in weeks, possibly months. He wrote, but sporadically. He had only seen her a few times in the past three years, never in Paris for long and often busy with duties. He couldn't know how she might have changed, and he was suddenly not sure of how he himself had changed. He rode quietly along side Porthos, understanding the man's silence better.

 

**

 

It took them six days, in the end. Porthos was riding by the time they got to the city. It was strange. There were people on the streets who cheered at them, screaming with joy. Tired eyes scrutinized their numbers, though, and there were too many in black. People flung flowers at them, and d'Artagnan got hit in the head with a bunch, his eyes following it to the street. The cobbles. There were more people than he had seen in a long time, outside of battle. He felt his skin prickling, tensions crackling over his shoulders, his body ready for defence, his mind quickening for expected attack.

 

Treville was waiting for them at the garrison. He looked older. d'Artagnan dismounted and stood, unsure of what to do next. All around him men were dismounting, leading their horses to the stable. The noise of conversation and laughter drifted over him, and he felt disconnected, distant. Porthos had stopped beside d'Artagnan. When he dismounted he gave a strangled sound and fell in a heap on the ground. d'Artagnan stared down at him, dazed. Porthos looked up at him, already struggling to his feet before Athos came running over to see to him, clasping d'Artagnan's forearm warmly.

 

"d'Artagnan, my friend," Porthos said. "This will pass. Rest, eat. You will be welcome in my rooms, when you need it. Or Athos's."

 

"This is so strange," d'Artagnan said, leaning into Porthos's hold, pressing there, forehead to forehead. "I feel like time has passed at different speeds."

 

"War does that," Porthos said.

 

They breathed together for a while, d'Artagnan becoming aware of Athos at their side, too, holding Porthos steady and resting and a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

 

"Someone's here to see you," Athos said, suddenly, sounding happier than he had in months.

 

d'Artagnan looked at him, instead of following his gaze, too stunned by the warm smile to turn and see who had inspired such an expression.

 

"Well you're all a sight for sore eyes."

 

d'Artagnan spun, already moving, Porthos laughing. d'Artagnan stopped when he saw her, though. She looked different. Her hair was done neatly, all of it plaited and coiled on her head, none loose. Her face showed more lines than he remembered. There was a scar across her mouth that he didn't remember. Her eyes were tired, and there was darkness there. Her dress was richer and looked heavier. She looked heavier. She looked much heavier, her stomach swelling the dress. d'Artagnan frowned, doing the calculation, remembering what Aramis had taught him, years ago now.

 

"Constance," he said.

 

"Hello," She said, then huffed out a laugh. "Look at you."

 

"Look at me? Look at you!" d'Artagnan said.

 

"We were 'ere six months ago," Porthos said, coming up to d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Madam, are we to offer you congratulations?"

 

"Well, if you think tiny little Charlies running about is good news," Constance said.

 

"Tiny little Charlies," d'Artagnan repeated, eyes flicking to Constance's stomach. Six months.

 

"I'm pregnant," Constance said.

 

The world wobbled, all the air leaving it. When d'Artagnan could see and hear again, Porthos was turning the air blue. He had got to Spanish, so he must have been at it a while. Spanish always came last, these days. d'Artagnan realised that Porthos was holding him up and quickly got his legs back under him, shifting to offer Porthos support instead, pressing a hand to the wound that still pained Porthos and turned him weak. Porthos breathed hard through his teeth, hand tight on d'Artagnan's arm, heavy against his side.

 

"Sorry, sorry," d'Artagnan said. "Are you alright?"

 

Athos came up again, taking Porthos from d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan gave them a last glance, then ran, sweeping Constance into his arms. She trembled, and he felt a rush of wetness against his neck. He breathed her scent in, underlayed with sweat, and something new. He laughed, then it caught and he had his own flood of tears. They clung to one another for a very, very long time.

 

"d'Artagnan," Athos said, eventually. "I need your help with Porthos for a moment."

 

d'Artagnan held his wife for a moment longer, then reluctantly let her go.

 

"I'll come with you," she said, smiling softly and touching his cheek. He had a scar there that he forgot about.

 

They went hand in hand, following Athos to Porthos's rooms. Porthos was sitting on the bed, naked from the waist up. His bandages were undone, the wound open to the air. The skin had swelled, and there was puss oozing between the stitches. d'Artagnan let Constance's hand go and hurried to Porthos, examining the wound carefully, prodding to see if the swelling was full of puss.

 

"Ow," Porthos said, articulating the sound carefully, scowling down at d'Artagnan. His eyes were too bright, and his cheeks were flushed.

 

"Why didn't you said anything? You could have ridden in the wagons, rested," d'Artagnan said.

 

"Water," Athos said, bringing a jug and two bowls of it over.

 

d'Artagnan flushed the wound, then bandaged it again, shoving until Porthos lay on his good side. d'Artagnan straightened.

 

"Keep an eye on it," d'Artagnan said. "If it swells much more I'll undo the stitches. They'll just tear otherwise. You know what to look out for."

 

"Yes," Athos said, smiling. "You and Aramis have told me many times. Would you like to iterate it again, to be on the safe side?"

 

"Oh be quiet," d'Artagnan said. "I expect you to look after yourself, too. Your thigh and hip must be aching. Soak in warm water if you can. At the very least rub the liniment in. If you can't, and Porthos can't help you, call me."

 

"I will," Athos said.

 

d'Artagnan gave him a long stare, then nodded, clapping his hands briskly. He gave Porthos a last look over, then returned to Constance. She was looking at him oddly, and kept on even when they reached the little house that used to belong to Bonacieux.

 

"What?" he asked her, still too much on edge to let it go unspoken.

 

"Seeing you in action," Constance said. "You're good at that."

 

"Yes, I am," he agreed.

 

They meant to go right to bed, their bodies craving one another, but after they had kissed for a while they found themselves talking more and more. In the end, they sat side by side and just talked long into the night.

 


	2. Of Healing and Scars

"How is it with Constance?" Porthos asked, three weeks later.

 

They were in Porthos's rooms at the garrison, d'Artagnan changing Porthos's bandages. He wouldn't need them soon. d'Artagnan was smiling about Porthos's progress, but he frowned at the question, finishing up and carefully tying off the end before answering, helping Porthos gets his shirt back on.

 

"It's... she's... we're..."

 

Porthos laughed, tugging him into a hug. d'Artagnan, buried in Porthos's armpit, struggled. It was no good, though. He gave in and let Porthos cuddle him.

 

"Sounds about right," Porthos said, sounding too amused. "It'll settle, don't worry yourself. Just try'n keep talking to 'er, right? And make sure you listen. Or I'll boil your 'ead. She's gonna have things she needs from you, and she won't always outright ask, you got to listen."

 

Porthos knocked on d'Artagnan's skull to bring his message home. d'Artagnan nodded, Porthos's arm pressing his neck too much for d'Artagnan to manage words. Athos came in, took the scene in, and then walked out again. Porthos let d'Artagnan go, laughing again.

 

"I'll do good by her," d'Artagnan said, a little hoarse from the cuddling.

 

"Too right you will. An' you come 'ere when you need a bit of looking after away from her. Right?"

 

"Right."

 

"Good."

 

"And you? How are you?" d'Artagnan said, narrowing his eyes and poking Porthos in the chest. "I haven't heard you say Amyot's name since you yelled for him in your fever."

 

Porthos's face darkened, and he turned away, shoulders tightening. He turned back to d'Artagnan a moment later, rubbing his face, shaking his head.

 

"I can't," Porthos said, and it came out as if he was being strangled.

 

"Alright," d'Artagnan said, quickly. "That's okay. We'll... we'll work on it. Yeah?"

 

Porthos nodded, then cleared his throat a couple of times. d'Artagnan sighed and held out his arms, letting Porthos hug him again, not struggling this time. Athos came back in and let out an exasperated noise.

 

"Are you not done yet?" Athos asked.

 

Porthos snorted and pulled back to look at d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan nodded, and they turned as one. Athos backed up a step, but they were too quick for him. They caught him in a group hug. He endured it in stiff, long-suffering silence, which just made Porthos laugh so hard he had to lean on them both to keep upright.

 

"I have news," Athos said, as they sat Porthos on the bed.

 

"Not just here for cuddles?" Porthos said, laughing again, bending over and holding his wound. "Oh, stop. Ow."

 

"You're the one laughing," d'Artagnan pointed out helpfully, tugging Porthos's arm away from the wound and putting a pillow between Porthos's arms and his torso. The pillow, d'Artagnan had found, spread the pressure and stopped the muscles hurting so much, and made it easier to laugh.

 

"Thanks," Porthos said, surprised. "This helps."

 

"It might stop you trying to cuddle us two to death, too," d'Artagnan says.

 

"Two to death too. Too too too-too too," Porthos said.

 

"News," Athos repeated. "I have some."

 

"Remember that owl?" d'Artagnan said.

 

Porthos sniggered, grinning.

 

"Wouldn't shut up, so I shot the damn thing and we ate it," Porthos said, with some satisfaction. "Amyot kept the talons for good luck. He says that-"

 

Porthos stopped, choking on the words that he was saying, breath coming in harsh pants. Athos came over and he and d'Artagnan looked helplessly down at Porthos. They didn't have to glance at one another to be in accord, they moved forwards as one, enveloping Porthos in a warm hug. He shuddered, but didn't cry.

 

"I have news," Athos said again, softly, stroking Porthos's hair. "I think it's good. But I also think it might upset you, Porthos. Would you rather I wait a bit?"

 

"No," Porthos said, muffled by d'Artagnan's stomach, which he's pressed against. "Get it over with."

 

"Um, okay. I have had a letter. From... from Aramis."

 

Porthos jerked, pulling away from them, jumping to his feet and grabbing Athos by the shoulders Porthos shook Athos until his teeth rattled.

 

"Tell me," Porthos said, as he shook. "Why didn't he write us? Where has been? Why wasn't he at the monetary two years ago? Why did he leave? Why didn't he find us?"

 

"I... don't... know!" Athos managed, between being shook.

 

"Let him go," d'Artagnan said, rubbing Porthos's back. "Ease up, you silly old thing."

 

Porthos stopped shaking Athos, and then stood, looking expectantly.

 

"He says he's coming to Paris," Athos said. "That's pretty much it, except to say when."

 

"When?" Porthos asked. "Why did he write to you, and not us?"

 

"I don't know why he wrote to me, or why he didn't tell me anything, or where he's been or any of it. I only know that he expects to be in Paris tomorrow, and is going to come here."

 

"Tomorrow? So soon?" Porthos said.

 

The door clicked open, but they were all caught up with each other.

 

"That's so soon," d'Artagnan said.

 

"Aramis," Porthos murmured. "He's coming here, tomorrow? Maybe he'll be late, though."

 

"Or maybe he'll be early," a voice said.

 

They all spun, Porthos nearly losing his balance, to face Aramis. Porthos took a step forward, then sucked in a breath, then fainted dead away, sinking to floor. Athos and d'Artagnan leapt to catch him.

 

"Oops," Aramis said, crouching beside d'Artagnan. "Did I...?"

 

"He was injured, he's still recovering. He's not been sleeping," d'Artagnan said. "Athos, get me some water for when he wakes. We could help him along, if there's a pair of his dirty socks lying around. Or his boots."

 

"Or smelling salts from your kit," Athos said.

 

He passed d'Artagnan the small bottle and d'Artagnan wafted it under Porthos's nose until Porthos coughed and tried to escape.

 

"That's it, there you are," d'Artagnan said, corking the vial. "Stay down, get your breath."

 

"Aramis," Porthos said, voice a whisper. "Aramis."

 

"He's right here," d'Artagnan said.

 

Porthos jerked himself upright, swaying dangerously, and grabbed Aramis, pulling him into a tight hug, clinging. Aramis, on his part, clung just as hard. d'Artagnan took him in. He was thinner, much thinner. And clean shaven. d'Artagnan had never seen Aramis without a beard and moustache, but now his face was clean as a young boy's. His clothes were different, too, more suited to court than soldiering. His boots clove to his calves and the heels were higher. He wore a doublet of thick, rich material, heavily embroidered and brocaded. His hat, though. That was the same.

 

"Shh, Porthos," Aramis said, gently. "Shh. I've got you. I'm here."

 

Porthos was sobbing, years of grief upon grief, years of missing Aramis, weeks of buried grief over Amyot, all pouring forth into Aramis's shoulder. Porthos shuddered, back bowing as if under a great weight. Aramis looked up at Athos, then at d'Artagnan, anxiety in his face. He looked older, d'Artagnan thought, idly, tracing the new lines, the new scar on Aramis's neck.

 

"We lost Amyot," Athos said.

 

"Oh, Porthos, I'm so sorry," Aramis said, plonking down onto him bum and holding Porthos close, rocking them. "I'm so very sorry."

 

Porthos managed to stop crying, but didn't try to extricate himself from Aramis's embrace.

 

"I thought you were dead," Porthos managed, at last, voice a croak. "Why else would you 'ave to not write me?"

 

"It's a long story," Aramis said, sighing. "I'd rather not tell it like this. Later, I promise, you will have all your answers."

 

"Thought you were dead," Porthos whispered.

 

Something clicked into place in d'Artagnan's mind. Porthos had stopped mentioning Aramis about a year ago, and whenever anyone else talked about him, it was like Porthos had blanked it out. It made sense, if he thought Aramis had died without their knowledge. Porthos had buried that suspicion, never mentioned it to Athos or d'Artagnan. Protected them.

 

"You stupid idiot," d'Artagnan said, slapping Porthos's shoulder. "I could have told you he wasn't dead, if you didn't try so hard to keep me from everything."

 

"How?" Porthos said, sounding so small and hurt about it that d'Artagnan wanted to bundle him up in a blanket and just hug the stuffing out of him.

 

"We could have persuaded one another," Athos said, firmly. "Next time, you talk to us. No matter how much you think it might hurt us. All for one, remember?"

 

"Aramis," Porthos said.

 

"Right here," Aramis said. "Come on, up you get. Let's have you lying down, hmm?"

 

"No. Here," Porthos said.

 

"I'll stay with you, I promise. You can hold onto me," Aramis said.

 

They got him onto the bed, and Aramis sat against the wall, Porthos curled in his lap. Porthos fell asleep between one shuddering breath and the next.

 

"Well," Aramis said. "I didn't know what to expect, but I never saw this scenario."

 

"We lost Amyot, and Porthos can't grieve for him," Athos said.

 

"Why not?" Aramis said.

 

"Because. He thought at first that it was me dead. When he realised it was Amyot instead, he was relieved," d'Artagnan said.

 

Aramis nodded, stroking Porthos's hair. d'Artagnan felt a sharp jab of irrational anger at Aramis. Then a wave of wholly reasonable anger.

 

"What were you thinking?" d'Artagnan snapped, giving it rein. "Vanishing from your monkery, not writing, not telling anyone where you were going. Merde! I didn't think you were dead, but I was still scared."

 

"Monkery?" Aramis said, raising an eyebrow.

 

"'s what Porthos called the monastery," d'Artagnan muttered, sulking at Aramis ignoring the rest.

 

"I would have written, if I had known you'd come looking for me," Aramis said. "I assumed you'd all think I was safe in the monastery, and not worry."

 

"Of course we came looking," Athos said. "We visited several times. Why would we just stop?"

 

"I hadn't heard from you, or seen you, in six months."

 

"We were at the front! We were fighting most every day!" d'Artagnan said, on the verge of shouting.

 

"Shh, settle down, you'll wake Porthos," Aramis said.

 

"You have no right to protect him!" d'Artagnan shouted. "No right. No right to take on that role. You left, and then you left again, and you never came to find us. You didn't care then, you don't get to care now."

 

"Hush, Charlie," Athos said. "Hush."

 

"No right," d'Artagnan said again, but he quieted under Athos's hands.

 

"Aramis will give us answers," Athos said.

 

"When Porthos is awake," Aramis promised, nodding.

 

"No," Athos said. "No, you'll give us answers now, because Porthos is going to need more than answers, and we need to know what that's going to be. You give us the story now, and we will work out how to tell Porthos."

 

"He doesn't need-" Aramis started.

 

"Yes, he does," Athos said. "This war hasn't been easy for any of us, but this past year has been hard for him."

 

Porthos, as if realising they were talking about him, made a high, whimpering sound, shifting in Aramis's lap. Aramis shushed him, the same way he used to, but Porthos didn't settle, making soft, questioning noises. Athos moved over and sat on the bed, resting a hand on Porthos's shoulder. Porthos twisted, trying to reach Athos. Athos adjusted his grip to hold Porthos still, and started humming. Porthos stilled, took a shuddering breath, then went limp again.

 

"It's been hard," Athos repeated. "I won't let you hurt him, Aramis. Tell us."

 

"Very well," Aramis said, looking down at Porthos. "Very well. I understand. I will tell you what happened, but I must ask that you keep your questions for when I am finished."

 

"Alright," Athos said.

 

d'Artagnan kept his mouth shut, anger still simmering away in him. He had heard Porthos calling for Aramis in the night too many times to be easy in himself about giving Aramis anything. Athos looked up at him, raising his eyebrows. d'Artagnan kept silent long moments, then snapped and gave a sullen shrug, flopping down onto the floor at Athos's feet.

 

"Fine, but I don't like it," d'Artagnan said.

 

"About two years ago, as you know, I left the monastery. The monkery," Aramis said, lips turning up, stroking the curls at Porthos's temple. "I just left, one day. I used to walk up to the forest, and through to a clearing, where I'd practice my sword work, and do my exercises. I kept my hand in, through restlessness as much as knowledge that I would need it. One day, I finished up and readied myself to return , but then, I don't know why, I buckled on my sword belt, instead, and walked in the opposite direction.

 

"I had, I suppose, some vague thought about finding a horse and making for Paris, or the front. Finding you. We had been hearing news of the war, and we had many injured soldiers who we cared for who told stories. I couldn't stand aside anymore. I wanted to be a man of peace, but, the lord taught my hands to war, and so I needed to fight. I made for Paris, in the end, figuring that would be the easiest way. I had no idea where you were.

 

"When I arrived, the first person I saw was Treville. The Minister, I should say. He told me the King would not just return my commission. We had a heated discussion, in which I said that I'd go anyway, and fight anyway. He suggested another path. Everyone believed me to be at the monastery. We wrote to the father and asked that it be put about that Aramis had returned, asked that Aramis stay there, regardless of my not actually being there. Then, we created a young noble-man.

 

"My job was to turn spy for the Spanish. I had a Spanish mother- my mother really was Spanish, what I mean to say is that the noble-man, too, had Spanish blood. It was to out, as it were. I have spent the last two years gathering intelligence from the Spanish court."

 

"Why not write?" d'Artagnan demanded, though he could guess the answer.

 

"Aramis was at the monastery. If I wrote as myself, as Aramis, from elsewhere, well. I could have just done it as Aramis, the spying. As myself. I didn't want that, though. I thought word might get around of my betraying my country. You might not believe this, but I didn't want you to bear that needlessly, if you heard it. Surely Treville passed you news?"

 

"He told us that you were at the monastery," Athos said. "When we went back, though, you still were not. We were told you simply wouldn't see us, but Porthos still doesn't take no for an answer. We hung around, watching the comings and goings. Five days, then six, then eight. No sign of you. d'Artagnan snuck in and found your quarters empty, then."

 

"I spent most of the time in Spain. I was only in France very briefly, to pass letters. I wrote only to Treville, for safety," Aramis said. "I thought of you. All of you."

 

"I still say you should have told Treville to go fuck himself, and come to find us," d'Artagnan said, bitterly. "We could have used you. We were at odds for a long time, after not being able to find you. Porthos might have kept his suspicions to himself partly because Athos wasn't talking to anyone, and I threw myself into being busy, doing everything at once. I didn't stop, Athos didn't speak."

 

"He spent a lot of those months with Amyot," Athos said, touching Porthos's cheek. "Porthos still made sure I ate and slept, and helped me work out strategy, and all the rest. Looked after me, even when I gave him nothing in return. I hated him, then, for a bit."

 

"I hated both of you," d'Artagnan said. "I missed Connie, and wanted to be home, and wanted the stupid war to be over."

 

"What happened?" Aramis said. "To bring you back into accord?"

 

"I was whipped," d'Artagnan said. "I made a mistake, and had to face my punishment."

 

"d'Artagnan disobeyed orders and nearly got ten of my men killed," Athos said. "I would have been lenient, I was with everyone. I don't believe in such punishments. They do no good. But one of the generals was at our camp at the time, inspecting lines. We were just running sorties, away from the front, and he was there to check up and collect our intelligence. He had d'Artagnan whipped. Twelve lashes, in the middle of the camp, for everyone to see. I carefully kept Porthos away, but he came back early from a scouting trip."

 

"He went for the general," d'Artagnan said.

 

"The general wanted Porthos punished, I managed to talk him into sending Porthos to Paris, rather than any other punishment. It was certainly hard for Porthos. To be away from us for so long when one of us was hurt was... I should have allowed the general to carry out some other brutality, I sometimes think, though perhaps not," Athos said. "He came back quiet and weary, and has been that way since."

 

"Yes," d'Artagnan said.

 

"You were alright? You're alright?" Aramis asked d'Artagnan, searching his face.

 

"I have scars, but the man who administered the lashes was from our regiment, and was kind," d'Artagnan says. "They infected, but I healed easier than many who face that punishment."

 

d'Artagnan got up and removed his clothes to show Aramis his back. Aramis had him sit on the bed and ran fingers over the lines of scarring, then flattened his palm against the small of d'Artagnan's back.

 

"Why's Charles naked?" Porthos mumbled, making them all start. Aramis removed his hand as if burnt. "Hmph. Naked. Don' like these."

 

Porthos's fingers crept over d'Artagnan's back, poking at the marks, then his hand closed over d'Artagnan's hip, tugging until d'Artagnan sprawled in Porthos's arms.

 

**

 

"You have duty at the palace," Athos said, coming into the main room of the garrison.

 

d'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis were sat, Aramis reading his bible, Porthos playing cards on his own, and d'Artagnan trying to stitch together pieces of a baby gown that Constance had thrown at his head before sending him out of the house.

 

"Who does?" Aramis asked.

 

"You. And Porthos. Giraud and Matthias are going with you, and the four of you are to accompany the King on his hunt. The Minister will be there, so I am staying here to do paper work," Athos said, thunking his head on the table with a groan.

 

Porthos bellowed with laughter, reaching over to ruffle Athos's hair. Porthos then rested his hand around the back of Athos's neck in a strangely intimate gesture, and continued with his cards one-handed. d'Artagnan glanced between him and Athos, found nothing wrong, and continued with his stitching. The stitches had got too big, again, and he flung the sewing down with a yell of frustration.

 

"What'd Con want you to do this for, anyway?" Porthos asked, taking it up and undoing the stitches that are straddling wide and wonky across the seam. "You're completely hopeless at it."

 

"I was getting on her nerves, and not being useful," d'Artagnan said, the injury of it stinging even now.

 

"Ah, she's just grown used to having all her space be her own," Porthos said, easily, as if it was fine and understandable and the world wasn't ending.

 

"She never wants to see me now," d'Artagnan said.

 

"'course she does," Porthos said, letting go of Athos to do d'Artagnan's sewing, stitches stacking little and neat, seam growing quickly under his deft hands. "Last time it was you stormin' out, finding it too close in there with her. It's just learnin' each other again."

 

"How come you know all this stuff?" d'Artagnan said. "You've not been married. Have you?"

 

"You know I haven't," Porthos said, grinning. d'Artagnan didn't miss the way Porthos's eyes slid first to Aramis, then to Athos.

 

"So how do you know it'll all be fine, then?" d'Artagnan pressed, needing an answer.

 

"Faith," Porthos said, shrugging, reaching the end of the seam. Porthos turned the gown right-way out, and held it up. It was a bit wonky, but not a bad effort over all. He passed it to d'Artagnan, and d'Artagnan examined it, pleased, a swell of pride in it surprising him. He smiled at Porthos, and Porthos smiled back. "There you go. All done. Ask her for a thimble, next time, it'll save your thumb."

 

Porthos got to his feet. As he passed d'Artagnan he gave his shoulder a squeeze and ruffled his hair. He paused by Athos's chair, frowning down at their lack-lustre captain. Porthos looked like he wanted to do something, though d'Artagnan had no idea what that might be. Athos got up, all at once, almost walking right into Porthos. Athos stopped, then laughed and walked into Porthos afterall, getting a shout of laughter and hug in return.

 

"Paperwork," Athos groaned, headbutting Porthos's shoulder.

 

"On you go," Porthos said, turning Athos and propelling him forward. "Are we going up to the palace now, or after breakfast?"

 

"Now. You've already had breakfast, I ate with you, stop trying to get extra food. You'll get fat," Athos said. "Then, I'll have to put you out to pasture, like the horses. And you know we really send them to the glue factory."

 

"Yes, captain," Porthos said, obediently, slinging an arm around Athos's shoulders and sauntering out beside him.

 

Aramis followed, silently. He was often silent, these days. d'Artagnan felt a horrible pleasure at it, because he still felt like Aramis deserved punishing for his various betrayals, even if there was reason behind some of them. Aramis turned to give him a wave and wan smile, then all three were gone. d'Artagnan gathered up his needles and threads and the gown, and headed back to Constance.

 

He found her sat in the kitchen looking grim. She smiled when he entered, though, and when he handed over the gown the smile split her face, and she got up to embrace him. He kissed her, trying to put all his apologies into it, and then they stood breathing together, forehead to forehead, and he felt, finally, the rush of intense love that had been missing so far. Not missing, maybe, but muted. He always loved her, but suddenly he felt like she was everything, that her warmth and beauty was filling the room and him and everything, vibrating every atom of the air. He laughed and swept her up, her stomach pressing between them, and turned her, embraced her, kissed her, caressed her.

 

"Oh," Constance said. "I was worried I'd been too grumpy, this morning, but you're happy."

 

"Yes, I am. I talked to Porthos. He's got a wise head on his shoulder, it turns out."

 

"I always liked Porthos," Constance said, comfortably, smiling.

 

"So," d'Artagnan said, kissing her again, "did," and again, "I."

 

"My God, what did you two talk about?"

 

"He just said that we needed to learn one another again, that the world wasn't ending, that we were bound to get cross. That you were getting used to sharing your space again, and throwing me out didn't mean you love me less. Or, something like that, anyway," d'Artagnan said, frowning, trying to recall Porthos's phrases.

 

"He's right. I never love you less. Just more an' more each day. You're back!"

 

"I know!"

 

This had been happening, on and off, over the past weeks. As things settled in the city, and at the garrison by extension, the reality of not needing to rush off again settled, too, and they kept saying this to one another. I'm back. You're back. We're back, we're here, we've got time to live again.

 

**

 

They fell into the habit, now that they were all back once more at the garrison and there were long boring watch duties again, of keeping company. Porthos started reading books, rather than just going over letters and strategies and intelligences with Athos. d'Artagnan brought his weapons and belts and armour with him, cleaning everything thoroughly, oiling the leather, mending. Aramis brought his bible, and his translation work. Athos no longer had guard duty, but when Porthos was on watch he'd sometimes show up and they'd stand, shoulder to shoulder.

 

"There's a Spanish delegation coming to palace tomorrow," Athos said, one such evening. "I'd like the four of us to accompany them from a league beyond the city. There's still a dangerous simmering on the streets."

 

"I'm still a bit stiff and slow," Porthos said. "Still getting back up to standard."

 

"You'll do," Athos said.

 

"We haven't had an assignment, the four of us," d'Artagnan said. "Do you think we'll work the same as we did? Before it all?"

 

"No. But I think we'll do just as well as we are now," Athos said.

 

Porthos grunted, whether in agreement or denial it wasn't clear. There was a hint of amusement, d'Artagnan thought. He'd had a long time to perfect the art of reading Porthos's grunts.

 

"Should I be sending d'Artagnan home to his wife?" Athos asked, after another long quiet.

 

d'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably, hoping that would be laughed off, or passed over. Dropped. Left alone.

 

"They're havin' a bit of a break from each other," Porthos said. "He's sleeping in with me, tonight."

 

Athos made an unhappy noise, which for some reason made Porthos laugh and reel Athos into a hug.

 

"We're fine," d'Artagnan said, assuring Athos. "We're just getting used to each other again. She's staying at the palace, when I'm not there, now. She's due soon. I like to know she's got people near."

 

"You're a good husband," Aramis said, softly. When d'Artagnan looked at him, he was looking away, gazing at nothing, far away. "You're wonderful to her."

 

"I am not," d'Artagnan said. "I do my best, but I'm too often short tempered, or having loud nightmares, or waking late into the night. I'm no good for her most of the time."

 

"You love her, and look to her care before your own," Aramis said. "That's good."

 

d'Artagnan decided to accept the compliment and move away from the topic, asking a question about the Spanish delegates and turning the conversation back to business.

 

**

 

"She's going to have the baby any day, but she won't have me near!" d'Artagnan ranted to Porthos. He'd been at it almost two hours, pacing and shouting, but Porthos was still sitting calmly and listening. "I can't keep on with this. I know you say we just need our space sometimes, but this is just ridiculous!"

 

d'Artagnan subsided, slumping miserably onto Porthos's bed. Porthos got up and patted d'Artagnan's shoulder bracingly. He didn't have time to say anything, though, because a soft knock sounded on the door. d'Artagnan waved him away, and Porthos went to open it. d'Artagnan tucked himself small-ly into the corner, bringing his knees up to lean on, watching Porthos. It was Athos at the door.

 

Athos came in, not noticing d'Artagnan, and wrapped an arm around Porthos's waist. d'Artagnan snorted softly at how affectionate Athos had become lately, but he was very quiet about it. He watched, sighing, resting his heavy head. Athos was talking, not letting Porthos get a word in.

 

"I know, I know, I said tonight, but I have duties tonight and I can get out for a few hours now, won't you come eat now, instead? You must be hungry, you're always hungry. We can go to my rooms, the windows are too high for anyone to peer into and everyone thinks I'm hiding in the office."

 

Athos pressed up onto his toes, so his forehead reached Porthos's, and then pressed their lips together. d'Artagnan gaped. He'd seen Porthos and Athos kiss before. Athos kissed people, in a friendly way, and Porthos did most things, in a friendly way- touching, wrestling, hugging, kissing. This wasn't that, though. This was the way d'Artagnan kissed Constance. Open-mouthed, passionate, hand coming up to guide Porthos deeper into it. d'Artagnan squeaked, and Athos jerked back, spinning, spotting him finally. Athos flushed violently, backing away. Porthos grabbed Athos, catching him before he could flee, and shifted so his broad back blocked d'Artagnan's view. d'Artagnan heard soft, urgent words, and then Athos was leaving, but not like he was being chased. Porthos turned to d'Artagnan.

 

"Um," Porthos said, scratching the back of his neck. "Is that... I'll just say that we are exorcisin' some pent up urges, you know. He's there, I'm there."

 

"It's not the truth, though, is it?" d'Artagnan said. "I'm not stupid. I've seen people in the war, men who took advantage of being away from normal social rules. Men who weren't just working off tension, who were doing it like when a man and a woman are together, with love. I know about that."

 

"Yeah, thought you might not buy it," Porthos said, face going soft and fond. "You've got sharper, pup."

 

"I have not. Just know more, now. So, you and Athos. Are you going to be... that kiss. Is it...?" d'Artagnan trails off, unsure, horribly unsure.

 

"Yeah," Porthos said. "We'll probably be doin' that for a while. For ever, if I can help it."

 

"How'd it happen?"

 

"Estienne. He was my lover, for a while. Back when we three weren't talking, and everything was so awful. Amyot, I should say. I went to see his family, when we got back. Oh, now, don't go feelin' guilty about not noticin' things," Porthos said, and d'Artagnan smiled- Porthos had caught it almost before d'Artagnan had. "You've got a wife, and a baby on the way, and it's your first campaign, and you're fine, you got that? Me an' you are always fine. You're... Aramis left, and Athos was captain and so distant with it, and I hadn't been that alone for a really long time, but you were there for me. We're good, me and you."

 

"Yes," d'Artagnan said, assuring Porthos of that. "Even now, with you and Athos, me and you are good."

 

"Thank you. I came back from Amyot's wife, and I was... deeply unhappy. I can't grieve for him right, I'm not allowed. It hurt, a lot, to see her. Athos was here. And I realised that he's always here. And when he's not, I'm there. Anyway, I've loved 'im a long time, I think. Just realisin' it."

 

"I understand that. I realised I loved Constance all at once, in a flash, but I knew that I'd loved her for a while without recognising it."

 

"You and her really will be alright, you know. I think maybe you need to talk to her."

 

"About what, though?"

 

"Anythin'. Not love words. Not telling each other how you feel. Not about the war. Just talking about things, about Paris and politics and whatever it is you find interesting. You've changed, and she has, too. You got to remember and re-learn. Go for walks, sometimes, to get out of that house together. Maybe think about selling up there, and buyin' something that's not half-shop that you don't use. Something that's not haunted by her other husband."

 

"You're right, you're always right. How are you right?"

 

"I've got to re-learn, and remember, with Aramis, don't I?" Porthos said, sitting down beside d'Artagnan. "It's not the same, but he's one 'a my best friends, and one 'a the oldest."  
 


	3. Of Closures

"How can you forgive him so easily and so completely?" d'Artagnan asked, letting out the question that had been gnawing away at him. "For leaving and not trying harder to tell us he was okay, but also from before? He left, so we never really had a chance to properly get over his lying and getting us almost killed. It's hard to look at him."

 

"He's quite different, now," Porthos said. "That helps. I haven't, I don't think. Entirely forgiven him, I mean. But I love him. I just made the choice to forgive, put it behind us, work from here. It'll take time."

 

"You're not angry with him."

 

"No. He made choices that I don't agree with, and he made choices that hurt me. It's not so easy as him betrayin' me, though. He didn't do anything malicious. Choices are easier to see, from the future, than when we make them. I know how he ended up choosing at he did, and I've got to either reconcile that with myself, and accept it, or decide I want to change the nature of our relationship.

 

"You can do that, you know. You and him. You can choose not to give him your trust again, can decide that you don't want to be friends the same way as you used to be. You can decide that you want to be acquaintances instead. I'll support that. All the choices we have are painful ones. I choose to try and re-built something with him.

 

"I understood, before he slept with... well, you know who he slept with. I knew 'im pretty well. I wasn't entirely surprised, about the queen. I'd seen it between 'em. I knew Aramis has it in 'im to be cruel, to focus on something to the exclusion of all else, to love one and forget all others for a time. I was angry that he lied to me, and I'm still a bit hurt about him going off to Spain for those years, but it's all part 'a him, and always has been, and I choose to accept it, and love him anyway."

 

"I'm still so angry with him," d'Artagnan said. "I'm not even sure why, not all of the whys anyway. My blood just boils, and I can't look at him, and I feel repelled when I'm with him."

 

"I thought he had died. I was so sure. I used to think I'd feel it, if he died, and I never did, but I couldn't... I thought he might be, and once I'd thought it, I knew I had to persuade myself of it, because if I allowed myself even a note of hope, and it turned out that my fear was right... I couldn't bear it. I couldn't. God, I couldn't bear it," Porthos said, eyes closing. "It helps, I think. I'm just so very glad and thankful that he's alive, and here."

 

"I will have to think about it, about what I want from him or with him. Like you say."

 

"Yeah."

 

"You and Amyot?" d'Artagnan asked, suddenly, remembering.

 

"For a while. Old friends, good friends. It happens. He was very good to me."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"So am I. Estienne. I say his name, sometimes," Porthos says, smiling. "To myself. Just for me. He told it me, when we were lovers. I used it, when we were alone. It was something good between us, when things were bad. Just a name and it has so much power. It makes me happy. Just his name."

 

"And Athos, now?"

 

"Now Athos. Yes. I haven't had much luck in love, Charlie. This is a hard life that I chose. I'm never going to rise in the ranks, not like you. This is as far as I'm getting. It's already so far from where I've come, I guess I used up all my energy to get here. I like it here, I've nothing to complain of. It's not much to promise to someone, though. Athos doesn't mind that. I don't have to worry about what I'm giving 'im."

 

"That's good."

 

"You and Con, that's good too."

 

"You talk to her, don't you? I mean, I know you always saw her when we were in Paris, and I know you two wrote, but I don't think you used to call her 'Con'."

 

"She spoken to you about her brothers, yet?" Porthos asked, scrutinising d'Artagnan.

 

"Yeah," d'Artagnan said, shifting uncomfortably. "They lost three of them. She says she's been away from them all too long or her grief to be... I don't believe that. I think she feels it."

 

"I don't know much about it, except she seemed like she needed someone like that, and once she told me about 'em dyin', I tried. She's very easy to love, isn't she?"

 

"Yes," d'Artagnan says. "Yes, she is. She gives it back tenfold, always."

 

"Mm. Are you really okay with me an' Athos? It's a sin before God, you know."

 

"I think sin is something earthly, and that what counts as a sin changes depending on who you ask."

 

**

 

d'Artagnan and Constance walked hand in hand. The Spanish delegation has left, after a week. The week had kept d'Artagnan and the others busy with guard duty and escort duty, but no one was hurt and peace was holding. The week had been a week mostly away from Constance, and they seem more able to be together. It felt easier between them. They'd been talking about things that aren't feelings or war, as Porthos suggested.

 

"The queen could do with a holiday, I think," Constance said, as they turned down a street with a baker on it. d'Artagnan stopped them and ducked in to get something sweet. "You're going to keep me fat, like this," Constance said, accepting the cake.

 

"I don't care. You're beautiful, it doesn't matter to me."

 

"Oh. Really?"

 

"Of course. Didn't you know that?"

 

"I... no. No, I didn't. You've been very quiet, Charlie."

 

"Sorry. I am sorry. I often stop myself saying things, I don't want to say things."

 

"Tell me them. You know I've seen enough to at least get and inkling of things you tell me. We're together, remember? Me and you."

 

"You've got..."

 

"The baby won't hear it, and I am not so delicate."

 

"I made a promise. To go back, to go back to where we were forced to dig mass graves."

 

d'Artagnan told Constance the things he'd been keeping to himself, and when they made it made to the house, he wept, kneeling before her, resting his head on her thigh, head against her stomach. She stroked his hair and hushed him and they went to bed, finally making love together, their bodies finding joy in the unity of their minds.

 


	4. Of Beginning

d'Artagnan shifted in his uniform, sighing, tired and hot. It was early still. They were all standing in the yard, waiting for Athos to come down with orders. Porthos and Aramis had their heads bent close, Porthos giggling. They went still and silent when Athos appeared, and d'Artagnan waited for that to culminate. Athos, three steps from the yard, yelled. d'Artagnan couldn't tell exactly what happened, but it looked like the step had wobbled. Athos careened down the last steps, righting himself only with much pin-wheeling.

 

Everyone kept carefully silent, looking straight ahead. Athos glared around, but they closed ranks. d'Artagnan suddenly started to laugh, unable to help himself. He felt like time had concertinaed. He saw mornings like this stretching behind him, Treville in Athos's place, Athos at d'Artagnan's side. d'Artagnan couldn't stop laughing and laughing, Treville's outraged face merging with Athos's.

 

"If you're quite done, d'Artagnan," Athos said, stiffly.

 

"Oh, I'm sorry, captain," d'Artagnan said, holding his side. "Good lord above, but I haven't laughed in too long! Athos, my dear friend, I was thinking of the many times you have played a trick on Treville, and how pleased he will be. You realise this is the first of your captaincy, in this garrison?"

 

Athos's face did not change, the cold irritation not budging an inch. That just made it funnier, and d'Artagnan went off again into peals of it, filling the yard. Porthos's bellow joined him, and Aramis's light, light, familiar laugh, not heard in over two years, and then they were all laughing and laughing, holding one another up. d'Artagnan found himself next to Aramis, and caught his arm, holding his shoulder, finally meeting his eyes with a smile. Aramis sputtered, laughter stopping, and breathed deeply, smiling back.

 

"I am sorry, it seems my regiment has turned into children, this morning, and as such, have not recognised the Minister of War!" Athos shouted Treville's title, and they all came to a ragged attention before their captain and their ex-captain, containing themselves.

 

"I come as messenger, actually. I volunteered. Madam d'Artagnan felt pains while with the queen, and has gone into seclusion at the palace. You're child is on his way, d'Artagnan," Treville said.

 

The sun came out from behind a cloud, and shone down as d'Artagnan sprinted for the palace, his friends' joyful shouts chasing him.

 

**

 

"We're calling her Françoise," d'Artagnan told Porthos, leaning in close to his friend to show her off.

 

They were all gathered in the hallway outside of Constance's room at the Louvre. d'Artagnan was unable to look away from his daughter. He didn't want to ever look away from her. She was tiny and wrinkled and absolutely astoundingly beautiful. It was beyond comprehension, that this little creature was...

 

"Françoise," Porthos said, sounding the name out.

 

She chose that moment to cry, and they all laughed. d'Artagnan spared a brief glance for the three men he had the honour of calling his brothers, then ducked back in to his wife. She was curled on her side, half asleep, but she held out an arm for the baby.

 

"Everyone says hello and send you good wishes," d'Artagnan told her, giving Françoise over into Constance's arms.

 

She undid her clothing and bared her breast for the babe, and d'Artagnan watched in fascination as Françoise started to suck.

 

**

 

d'Artagnan sat across from Athos, wondering how to ask the favour he had in mind. They'd been back in Paris nearly four months, now. Françoise was two weeks in the world, and she and Constance were home. Not at the old Bonacieux house, but at a new house, purchased by d'Artagnan while Constance was at the Louvre. It was only small, but it was closer to the garrison and was theirs entirely. He had even engaged a maid to live in and help Constance.

 

"Porthos, I have told you countless time. Even if I am your captain, I cannot condone you skewering the red guard just because they trod on a fish!" Athos cried, throwing a pewter cup at Porthos's head.

 

"I wasn't listening to most of that," Aramis said, from Porthos's other side, leaning forwards. "A fish?"

 

"I caught it," Porthos explained. "In the Seine. It was my fish. I was just showin' it, and Monsieur Rousseau knocked me elbow so his friend could accidentally tread it into the inn's muck on the floor."

 

"I stupidly thought that war had tempered you. That you were grown out of brawling and drinking," Athos said. "You and your storytelling."

 

Porthos's lips were twitching. d'Artagnan nudged him, to get him to smile, to get his face to crinkle up in pleasure. Porthos turned to him and smiled, just like that. Eyes going small, lines going warm. d'Artagnan breathed out, touching Porthos's arm, laughing softly. Porthos nodded at him, ruffling his hair.

 

"Would you two stop it?" Athos said. "You'd think you were about to get married. Stop cooing at each other."

 

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, my friend," Aramis said.

 

"I'm not- All of you, get out," Athos snapped, shooing them away.

 

Porthos laughed, and he and Aramis went, clattering down the stairs and calling to one another. Athos raised his eyebrows at d'Artagnan, demanding an explanation of his continued presence.

 

"My lists, of the graves," d'Artagnan said.

 

"You have a child. I'd have thought that took precedence over the dead," Athos said, briskly.

 

"It does. I made a promise, though."

 

"I can't send people. Resources," Athos said.

 

"Not people."

 

Athos looked up, and d'Artagnan saw a myriad of emotions flit over his face. Fear, weariness, anger, distress. Then it all cleared, and Athos nodded.

 

"I could manage without him for a bit, I suppose," Athos said.

 

"Them."

 

"Both of them? Alright, you're right. Not at once, though."

 

"In four months," d'Artagnan said. "I can go some of the way with them, then. At least begin it."

 

"I'll send them for a month, that's it."

 

"It will take longer. But that is a start, I can accept that."

 

Athos nodded, turning back to his paperwork. That morning had seen the return of Matthias and Houle's men, who had been doing duty at the border. Treville had come to announce that the border was being called secure, and Athos had recalled all his musketeers. Their recent assignments have been at the palace. It feels like an end.

 

**

 

"I finally believe in peace," d'Artagnan told Constance, getting in that evening.

 

He was tired from a long day training recruits, something Athos had decided was d'Artagnan's duty. The decision had come after d'Artagnan pushed for Porthos and Aramis to be sent to the grave sites to erect markers. He hung his hat up and went through to the sitting room, finding Constance feeding Françoise, smiling at him in the fading light.

 

"So do I," Constance said.

 

d'Artagnan gave his cloak to the maid, who came up to see to him. He passed her his sword-belt, too. He went into what she was to do with it when he hired her. d'Artagnan set his pistol on the table and went to his wife and his daughter.

 

 

 

 

_~fin~_


End file.
